I have a couple of interesting personal observations to indicate which vicious little minority seems to be winning the culture wars within the left-wing elitist establishment, at least since the Clintons took power.

As some of you know, I also write fiction, and as a kind of hobby I try to market it, mostly to collect and analyze the rejection slips. Needless to say, all my stuff is far too politically incorrect to be published, but some of the responses are suggestive and revealing. The Jews, of course, maintain overall business and financial control of the world publishing industry through the five or six major conglomerates, but what I begin to find fascinating is the editorial aspect of it, where The Agenda is most visible.

My Civil War murder mystery novel has, of course, always been rejected, usually with great frankness by editors who admit that they cannot publish a book with a Confederate hero. (Perhaps significantly, they always say that they cannot publish a pro-Southern book, not that they will not.) But lately it seems as if the radical feminists have taken over the editorial boards of most publishers. The determination to publish or not has moved away from race to an author’s politically correct (or otherwise) treatment of his female fictional characters.

One of the most immediately obvious results of this situation is something that has been noted by a number of literary reviewers and scholars, and that is the virtually total collapse, over the past fifteen years, of science fiction as a literary genre. Most ‘science fiction’ nowadays, as a quick trip down the aisles of your local Waldenbooks or Barnes and Noble looking at the covers will confirm, is actually ‘science fantasy’ involving mythical lands of dragons, elves, magic, and of course all kinds of fetching liberated female characters, witches or space princesses or Xena the Warrior Maiden types who spend the whole book doing down assorted evil males who want to dominate them and make them have babies or some such. (A good example is the last female captain of the Enterprise in the Star Trek series; White males have virtually disappeared from Star Trek since its inception 30 years ago.)

National Socialists generally being pretty omnivorous readers, I’m sure you will have some idea of the kind of drivel I’m talking about. There simply are no more Robert Heinleins, Ray Bradburys, Brian Aldisses, Philip K. Dicks, or Alfred Besters in sci-fi today. The whole once vital genre has been blanded down and PC’ed and feminized into mush. You can’t even get any good old proper sword-and-sorcery fantasy – where is today’s equivalent of Robert E. Howard or Clark Ashton Smith or John Norman? The closest we’ve got is Orson Scott Card, and frankly in my view he is only a pale imitation of earlier s-and-s glories.

A second indicator of the way in which radical feminism has seized control of English-language fiction in all media came to my notice only a few weeks ago. I picked up a paperback copy of a P. D. James murder mystery, A Mind To Murder, which was new to me, or so I thought. I was almost thirty pages into the book before I realized that I had actually seen this particular Commander Dalgliesh mystery dramatized on British television.

Or had I? Because while the names of the characters were the same and the overall plot was the same – a female bureaucrat in a private mental clinic is found done in with a chisel – there were puzzling differences. The television show opened up with Commander Dalgliesh’s female partner, a woman detective sergeant, being shot and killed in a warehouse in some unspecified criminal investigation by a man in a ski mask and black jumpsuit; we later learn that this man is a renegade MI5 agent who is covered up for by the evil Conservatives of Britain and sent to a private mental hospital on an island off the coast to “recuperate.” There the main murder takes place, and Dalgliesh shows up by helicopter with his new partner, also a “strong woman” copper. There is a whole long digression into the patients at the clinic, which consist of neurotic males, all potential killers, and women who have been driven to nervous breakdowns of various kinds by male persecution. Lunatics are people just like us, don’t y’know, mustn’t be judgmental and all that rot.

One male patient commits suicide and a second murder is attempted; finally the killer turns out to be a blond, blue-eyed young White man who is a genuine, working artist producing paintings as opposed to the neurotic quasi-Jew pseuds in the clinic. The evil White male MI5 guy also gets his, the female partner of Dalgliesh saves the day, and sisterhood is vindicated.

That’s the TV show. The actual P. D. James novel A Mind To Murder, written in 1962, bears virtually no resemblance at all to the British television show, circa 1991 or so, I think. In the original book, the clinic is located in the middle of London, not on an island. There is no murder of a female cop by a spook gone berserk. Dalgliesh’s partner is the stolid White male Sergeant Martin. There are no pseudo-intellectual psycho patients spouting politically correct drivel; all the suspects in the killing of the administrator are among the staff. Finally, in the book, the killer is a woman. The very ending and plot of the novel were altered by television to render the result politically correct.

This is the way these people will rape the fiction of P. D. James, possibly Britain’s greatest living mystery writer – and a woman. So I suppose I shouldn’t complain about what they’ve done to my work.

My first encounter with this phenomenon was in my historical novel Vindictus, which has as its protagonist a character who must certainly have existed at some stage in real history – the first gunfighter. It’s set in the Cromwell period and features a former Royalist soldier who comes home and finds that he’s been royally screwed (no pun intended) by his Puritan neighbors who chose the winning side, and he decides to return the favor. I had one female editor reject it on the grounds that my main character, Denzil, “...has a cavalier attitude towards women.”

“Cavalier attitude.” Get it? I don’t think the silly woman realized the atrocious pun she was making. But the fact is that what she was demanding, essentially, was that I make a character who supposedly existed in the 1650s into a sensitive 90s-kind-of-guy, which is even more absurd. In other words, she wanted me to re-write history, which I won’t do.

Some time ago I wrote a piece of pure hackwork, a ghost story along the Stephen King line. (I won’t give the title because I’ve got another agent nibbling at it at the moment.) Without getting overly conceited, I am simply stating a fact when I say that as horror/supernatural stories go, this book is at least as good as 90% of the pure crap that is being published in that genre today. This book makes no pretense to be great literature and is chiefly interesting for the fact that it’s the only one I have ever written with a female protagonist. About a year ago I had a very strong nibble from an agency, run by women of course, who claimed that they wanted to offer me a contract, but... there just had to be a few teensy-weensy changes made....

“Here it comes,” I said to myself with a grin, reading their fax. “Always those few changes.” Which I usually won’t do because they always want to gut the whole novel, whatever it is, and make it stomach-churningly politically correct. I figured in this case the changes would involve the fact that my heroine, Amy, is a fundamentalist Christian. But no. Explained the head of the agency, I had to rewrite the whole ending of the book, because the female protagonist was perceived by their staff as being “Too much of a victim. Only fiction showing women as strong and independent people in their own right who control their own destinies and triumph over all odds is acceptable in today’s market.”

The lady didn’t say acceptable to whom or why, nor did I ask. The fact that this is a horror story and the protagonist might reasonably be expected to come to a sticky end made no difference at all. Sticky ends in supernatural horror novels are apparently okay for all kinds of White males in the pulp paperbacks, on up to Stephen King’s Jack Torrance in The Shining; I’m positive if my protagonist had been male there would have been no problem with my book’s plot line.

But not for les femmes. The fact that the classic of the whole genre, Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting Of Hill House, also has a female protagonist who comes to a sticky end is beside the point, apparently. Shirley Jackson was writing in 1960 under classical Judaic literary Stalinism, before this particular brand of political correctness had set in. It’s ironic that Stalinist liberalism controlled by Jewish men of the day actually left American writers with more intellectual freedom than modern-day feminism controlled by Jewish women; in 1960 so long as you didn’t criticize the Soviet Union you had a good chance of being published in New York.

My second encounter with literary feminism was more recent and an even sharper indication of the way the wind is blowing in the halls of the decrepit and PC-riddled publishing industry. After November 1996, I never even bothered to submit my anti-Clinton novel Fire and Rain to publishers or agents. We live in a nation of people who re-elected Bill and Hillary Clinton, knowing what they were full well, and there is obviously no point. However, I did try the one agent out in California who did me the favor of pushing my Civil War murder mystery like hell for almost two years, against all the anti-Confederate odds, purely because he liked the book. I came across his address and said, “Eh, what the hell?” I asked him if he wanted to look at Fire and Rain, warning him right up front that there was virtually no chance it would ever be published in today’s political climate. He read the book, loved it, and sent it back to me in sad agreement.

A while later he actually called me on the phone, wanting to know what else I was working on. (I ended up half promising him a medieval murder mystery I’ve got about 40,000 words done on, but I doubt I’ll ever have time to finish it once the NSWPP HQ gets going.) We went over all my other stuff, and he said something like, “Pity about Fire and Rain,” to which I replied, “Yeah, but I know there’s no market for something that’s anti-Clinton and exposes the 1960s anti-Vietnam war movement as corrupt, etc.”

“No, no,” said the agent. “You don’t understand. It’s not that. If it were only the anti-counterculture and Vietnam stuff I’d at least take a crack at finding you a publisher. No, the problem is Heather.”

“Huh?” I asked. Heather is my female lead in Fire and Rain, a single mother, Yuppie Barbie doll “professional” type who starts out very politically correct but gets disenchanted with PC when A) She gets the hots for a handsome Southern detective who is digging into a 26-year-old murder in Chapel Hill; and B) She becomes entangled in the plot and a hit team from the FBI and CIA try to murder her and her daughter in order to cover up the truth about the Vietnam era.

“Heather is a strong, independent woman with all the correct PC credentials at the beginning of the book,” explained the literary agent. “Including your reference to her experimenting with bisexuality like a good PC White female is supposed to do these days. Not only do you have Heather rejecting political correctness with the Vietnam thing, but she also rejects feminism and lesbianism to end up marrying Matt. A conservative, White Southern male more or less rescues a modern 90s career woman from a life of feminism and lesbianism through honorable marriage, commitment, personal courage, and love. That’s about as big a no-no as you can possibly commit in today’s fiction. If I tried to send that manuscript to some of my editors I’d have a mob of lesbian feminist harpies down from San Francisco on my doorstep tomorrow with pitchforks and torches. They’re already suspicious enough of me because of that Civil War novel of yours I tried to peddle, plus some other PI stuff.”

There you have it, folks. You wonder why you can’t seem to get anything but PC crap on TV and can’t seem to find anything but PC crap by way of fiction to read except for stuff written over 30 years ago? This is how it works. The Jews won’t put up the money or give an unapproved author the contacts to publish – it’s always been like that, of course – but now they don’t even have to exert the effort to suppress politically incorrect books. Such material not only doesn’t make it past the editor’s desk, it never leaves the agent’s office, because the agents know full well what will sell and what won’t and what will lose them every business contact they have in New York and get them blackballed if they even try to sell it.

“Oh, for a muse of fire.....”